


Alpha Island

by maqcy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 'Littles', 'Squares' of land, AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety, Drabbles, Entertainment, Exhausted!Stiles, Exotic Island, F/M, Gen, Heirachy of Alphas, Hurt!Derek, Kidnapping, M/M, Prisoners, WIP, black market, reality show, surveillance cameras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maqcy/pseuds/maqcy
Summary: Stiles is abducted, wakes inside a crate and dropped from a plane onto a tropical island. Hunted and afraid, he runs straight into Derek Hale. It's not exactly love at first sight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! Dark themes.
> 
> Also *This is my work and belongs to me. Please don't reuse/copy/republish/borrow my characters or do anything else I wouldn't like without asking me first*
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Stiles wasn’t sure where he was, exactly, except that they were moving. He had woken up inside what felt like a padded crate which shifted slightly side to side at irregular intervals. Stiles ran his fingers around the inside of the box, trying to find an opening. It was oppressively warm inside and utterly black. Stiles screamed out as he felt a rush of panic and threw his weight against the wall of the box. He heard a muffled laughing and froze, listening. He could hear talking but not the words. Shit, shit, shit. Stiles braced his back against one side of the box and put his feet flat against the other side, pushing as hard as he could. The box didn’t even creak, his bare feet sinking into the box’s padding. With a cry of frustration, Stiles started kicking, slamming his feet into the box as hard he could within the confined space. He felt the box slide slightly, but he resigned himself to the fact that the box wasn’t going to open.

Light suddenly poured into the top of the box and Stiles squinted, looking up to see a man wearing a pilot’s head set looking down at him through a thick wedge of grimy glass. The man was grinning and he put a finger to his lips as if to shush Stiles. Stiles glared at the man with pure hatred, shifting himself around in the box to line up his feet with the glass, before slamming them as hard as he could into the see-through surface. The man jerked back with a shocked expression, disappearing from Stiles’ line of view, but he returned, laughing, when Stiles continued to kick. The man moved away and Stiles felt the crate being moved, suddenly lurching forwards to roll onto its side, the window now on the wall of the crate. Stiles gave a choked cry as he was thrown onto his side before getting back up. He threw himself to the back of the crate when he saw where the window was pointed; straight out of the door of an airplane or helicopter, way up above what looked like an island. Whatever it was, Stiles was certain that if he fell from this height, he was dead. He swore repeatedly, trying to drive his weight backwards. It did no good, the box being pushed forwards in increments, Stiles’ panic increasing exponentially with every shove,

“No, no, no, no, please, please,” Stiles yelled out in desperation but, with one final shove, he was sent airborne, the box twisting in the air as he plummeted, screaming, to his death.

A jarring upward tug made Stiles’ skull slam into the top of the box and he yelped, even as the box’s fall was slowed. Stiles, cautiously, came up to the window to look out. If he looked straight up he could catch the edges of a parachute, looking down was a jungle-covered island, getting bigger by the second. He felt the box jerk and then swing and, looking down, he was now angled to land on a bit of beach. Stiles stared, aghast, on the edge of a panic attack. What the hell?

The impact as the box hit the sand was bone-shaking and Stiles cried out as he was slammed into the box’s floor, his elbow hitting the un-padded glass of the window with a crack. The box turned over once and the parachute collapsed on top of it, blocking out most of the light coming in from the small window. Stiles, shrugging off the dizziness, pushed against the sides of the box but, again, they didn’t budge. He sat, breathing heavily, shaking with the left-over adrenaline from the rush of it. What was the point of giving him a parachute if he was going to be trapped inside the box? Had something malfunctioned?

A sudden sound made Stiles tense and then, suddenly, the box fell open around him, leaving him under by the parachute. He scrambled out from under it only to be blinded utterly. Stiles whimpered at the assault on his senses, putting a hand over his eyes as he tried to regain his vision. Looking through the gaps in his fingers, his eyes watering, Stiles could see the forest hanging over the beach, only a fifty or so meters away. It looked dark, cooler; better for his eyes, and less exposed than he was here on the beach. Anyone could have seen the box fall from the sky, anyone could be coming for Stiles right now. Stumbling across the sand, Stiles ducked under the low hanging vines and took his hand away from his eyes. The light was too bright after the darkness of the box but, here in the forest, it was bearable. It was still stiflingly hot and Stiles was sweating heavily, stripping off his long-sleeve shirt to tie it around his waist.

He heard the sound of someone running to Stiles’ left, and Stiles took off in the opposite direction running a short way before choosing the first tree he could climb and swinging himself up above head-height. He scrambled up onto a higher branch and then held himself motionless, looking down through the leaves to the ground below him. The sound of footsteps slowed to a stop,

“Where the fuck did it go?” A voice, low, male, hostile voice hissed, too close to Stiles for comfort and Stiles held himself still, his heart hammering. “Gonna find you, you little fucker.” Stiles shuddered as the footsteps came nearer, but the man, whoever it was, passed underneath Stiles without incident and Stiles relaxed minutely.

Minutes passed and, when everything seemed quiet, Stiles carefully dropped down from the tree, glancing around him warily. So there were other people here and though one of them at least spoke English, Stiles quickly decided that he wanted nothing to do with anyone else on the island, at least until he was capable of defending himself better.

He took off at a light run, keeping his attention on his surroundings. The jungle got thicker but was still mostly passable and Stiles kept moving, even as the sticky heat dragged at him and his bare feet became battered, even though he was stepping as carefully as he could.

A noise off to the side and Stiles twitched towards it. He saw a glimpse of white skin and took off, running hard. He tripped, fell, and scrambled up again, not pausing to look behind him as he sprinted away,

“We got a fledgling!” A man’s voice, rougher than the first, shouted out and Stiles heard the hoots of answering voices. He just ran, his breath sawing in and out his lungs as he tired, crashing the undergrowth painfully loudly, the sound of people giving chase behind him spurring him on,

“He’s a real runner.” Someone, breathing heavily, close behind.

“It’s mine.” A growl.

“Fuck off Bradford.” Stiles was struggling and he fell again, dragging himself upright to stagger onwards as fast as he could drag his legs, his breathing struggling in and out. He cursed silently as he saw people coming in at him from the sides. Wherever the fuck he was, he knew he didn’t want to be caught.

A man, heavily built and bare-chested, appeared suddenly in front of him, too sudden for Stiles to avoid. He tried to veer away but only ended up falling, landing badly on his right wrist with a cry of pain. He dragged himself up but the man caught him with insulting ease,

“Get off-” Stiles could barely breathe, he was so exhausted, “Get- off- me.” The man had him around the chest, already trying to pull him away, and it took an inhuman effort for Stiles to even put up the semblance of a struggle, kicking the man in the shin with the heel of his foot. The man barely seemed to notice Stiles’ resistance, but as Stiles wasn’t keeping up with the man dragging him along, the man bent down and lifted Stiles off his feet, “What the hell-” Stiles murmured breathlessly as the man handled him like a doll, holding Stiles to his chest and taking off at a steady jog,

“Fucking Hale,” a furious growl came from the right, the owner of the voice lost in the dense greenery, “You’re on my square, give the fledgling back.” The man holding Stiles didn’t reply, moving steadily away. He seemed wary, but not scared and, as Stiles slowly recovered his breathing the man glanced down at him. Stiles took in the man’s strong features in a glance; thick black hair, his eyes a striking but complicated dark grey-green. Stiles waited until the man had turned his attention back to their surroundings before drawing his fist back and punching the man hard in the throat. The dark-haired man made a choked-off grunt and Stiles scrambled free, stumbling into a run, though he was tripping and falling almost as much as he was upright.

“Shit,” He heard the man come after him and told himself to go faster, to keep moving, not to stop, “I’m not going to hurt you-” A hand took Stiles arm and he twisted around, throwing a weak hit that was dodged by the black-haired man, “it’s not safe here, just come with me. I swear I won’t hurt you.”

“Fuck off.” Stiles grunted, trying to move away. The man wouldn’t let go of his arm,

“Sorry.” He muttered and Stiles found himself being grabbed around the middle and lifted over the man’s shoulder. Stiles huffed out a sound of pain and the man apologised again almost inaudibly before taking off at a run,

“Hale!” A shout of anger, followed up more quietly, “Goddamn prick.” There was no sound of chase but Hale, if that was his name, kept moving for several more, long minutes, his arm tight around the backs of Stiles’ legs, holding him still. Stiles was weary enough that he reasoned that Hale couldn’t carry him forever, that he’d make his getaway when Hale put him down. For now, he hung limp, just trying to breathe as Hale’s shoulder slammed into his stomach with every stride.

Hale slowed once they reached what looked like a trail; a narrow corridor cleared of jungle undergrowth that Hale moved down with confidence. Stiles felt himself beginning to slip away – he just felt so tired, so weak – and brought himself back to awareness by force of will. He couldn’t give up, not now. Hale shifted Stiles’ weight slightly and Stiles grunted as the air was pushed out of him.

Hale paused to speak to someone; Stiles couldn’t focus enough to make out the words but he caught a flash of honeyed skin and wide, concerned brown eyes, before Hale put him down suddenly. A sudden rush of blood made Stiles stagger, his legs shaking with the effort of just standing, even as Stiles berated himself for his weakness; blinking through the dizziness to see three pairs of eyes looking at him,

“-alright?” Hale had said something but Stiles didn’t hear it. The new, brown-eyed, floppy haired boy stood in front of Stiles looked barely older than Stiles was, though he was tall and broad across the shoulders and stood like he could handle himself. Between Hale’s disdainful frown and the concern evident in the brown-eyed boy’s eyes, Stiles chose the boy. He stumbled away from Hale and the boy caught Stiles’ shoulders as Stiles looked as if he would collapse. The third person stepped in, then, a girl with sharp eyes and a strong jaw, to support Stiles,

“Steady there.” She said,

“Derek?” The brown-eyed boy spoke quietly and Stiles saw that he was looking at Hale. Hale shrugged, glancing over Stiles in a way that made Stiles shudder,

“They were going to kill him.” Derek said. Other things may have been said but the next time Stiles was conscious, the boy was talking to him,

“Come on fledgling.”

“Not my name.” Stiles muttered as the boy carefully lowered him to sit on the floor. Stiles figured that since the pair hadn’t yet pulled a knife on him, or else threatened him, that he would be alright for now.

Derek watched silently. Stiles didn’t trust him at all.

“Alright then,” the girl said with a hint of amusement, “What is your name?”

“Stiles.”

“What?” The girl glanced over at her companion, “Is he sick?” The boy touched a hand to Stiles’ forehead and Stiles huffed a half-hysterical laugh at his fretting,

“I’m not sick,” Stiles said, though he was still feeling light-headed and weak, “It’s my name. Stiles.”

“Stiles.” The boy repeated, somewhat doubtfully, looking Stiles over with something like bewilderment and it made Stiles want to giggle again, “Okay, so, I’m Scott and this is Allison.” Stiles sobered slightly,

“Where ‘m I?” He slurred and a glance passed between Scott and Allison before Allison said,

“You’re on Alpha Island,” she said, sighing when Stiles looked at her, uncomprehending, “I’m sorry this has happened to you Stiles,” She said, “Alpha Island is an entertainment channel. The ‘Alphas’ here are criminals and they own ‘squares’; bits of land within the island. Everyone else is a ‘little’ and we, we belong to the Alphas.” Stiles stared at her,

“You’re insane.” He croaked out, “Fuck that. I don’t belong to anyone.” Allison tried to soothe him but Stiles wasn’t listening, “So what are you? An ‘Alpha’?” He snapped at Scott, injecting a mocking note into his voice, “So you’re a criminal? What did you do exactly?” Scott looked back at Stiles with a wounded gaze and Stiles reminded himself that it wasn’t a good idea to piss off the only people who had yet to chase and try to manhandle him, who were potentially protecting him from the hostile-looking, black-haired man,

“I killed someone,” Scott said, avoiding Stiles’ gaze, “But I would never hurt anyone now. And though Allison is, according to the people in charge here, my ‘little’ – I love her.” Stiles looked between them,

“Why are we here?” He asked finally, struggling to wrap his exhausted brain around what was happening. Was Allison telling the truth?

“Entertainment, Stiles.” Scott said, a bitter edge to his tone, “They film us.”

“Who’s they?” Stiles asked dully, looking around him stupidly as if a cameraman might be crouching in the undergrowth. Scott shrugged,

“We don’t know, Stiles,” he said, “It doesn’t really matter.” He lowered his voice, “They have guns and if you speak against them, against what’s happening to you, against the system; they kill you, sooner or later. Do you understand?” Stiles stared at him before nodding slowly. Don’t speak against the system. Got it.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Allison said and the genuine sympathy in her voice made Stiles want to cry, “But there’s one more really important thing. You remember what I said about the squares?” Stiles nodded, feeling like a child whose parent was telling him not to get into cars with strangers, “We’re inside Scott’s square at the moment and when you’re stronger one of us can walk you around Scott’s square and Derek’s, because it’s really important you don’t go outside our squares, okay?” Stiles nodded again, on the edge of asking why when Allison continued, holding eye contact with him, “You’re safe in our squares, Stiles, because it’s our territory and another Alpha invading your square is like announcing you’re going to war, but if you step into someone else’s square, they can claim you. Do you understand?” Stiles nodded grimly,

“Yeah, I got it.” He said. His head was spinning; this all felt like a surreal dream, “I miss my dad.” He said quietly and Allison melted, coming over to him to wrap her arms around him. Stiles flinched, before slowly relaxing into the embrace,

“I know,” Allison said quietly, “but you’re going to be alright, Stiles, we’ll look after you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Derek stayed through dinner, which came out of the same kind of ration packs had in the army. It was tasteless but hot and filling and Stiles ate what he was given,

“How did they catch you?” Scott asked and Stiles looked up, unsettled. He stared at Scott for several long moments before dropping his head. He stayed silent. Scott didn’t ask again, quietly talking instead to Allison about some plans they had for extending their shelter in time for the rainy season,

“Just how long have you been here?” Stiles blurted out suddenly and Scott and Allison regarded him sadly. Derek looked vaguely irritated,

“It’s been about four years.” Scott said, “I was here a year before Allison arrived and it was one of the worse of my life.” He turned to look at Allison with such blatant love that Stiles managed a weak smile. Scott turned to Derek and Derek scowled at him,

“Don’t pity me.” He snapped at Scott, making Stiles flinch. Scott turned away and Allison took his hand. Derek stood up suddenly and Stiles flinched again, “We’re going now.” Derek said, low and hard and Stiles stared at the man. ‘We’, as in he and Derek? He turned to Scott, pleading, but saw only apologetic confirmation that Stiles would have to go with Derek,

“No, I-” Stiles curled into himself. He didn’t want to leave Scott and Allison, didn’t want to be alone with the man. Derek was cold and contained; all animal, “I don’t want to.” Stiles said,

“Get up.” Derek snapped. Several long moments passed before Stiles reluctantly did as he was told. Day had faded into night and the jungle stretched out, thick and dark beyond the light of their fire. Stiles swallowed thickly, scared to leave Allison, Scott, their fire and safety behind. He curled his arms around his stomach. Derek jerked his head for Stiles to follow before stalking off into the dark. Stiles looked back once to meet Allison’s wide, kind eyes before he hurried after Derek.

Once the light of the fire had faded and the dark crowded in, Stiles moved closer to Derek so as not to lose him. As intimidating as Derek was, so far, he was better than the animals Stiles had been running from. Derek stopped suddenly and Stiles walked straight into the back of him with a grunt of released air. Derek took Stiles’ wrist and Stiles allowed Derek to lead him forwards as they moved off again; too tired to resist. A few minutes passed before Derek made a turn to the left, seeming to be coming off the path, “Just through here.” He muttered. Stiles batted away the various vegetation springing at him, completely at a loss to how Derek had managed to navigate in the dark. He couldn’t have said even which direction it was to Allison and Scott’s square now and the thought scared him.

By the scattered light of the moon, Stiles could see they’d reach some kind of small clearing with a man-made box-like shape emerging from the haphazard vegetation leering in on all sides. They approached it and Derek nudged Stiles in front of him, guiding him up a short ladder. A few steps up and then Derek had his hand on Stiles’ head, making him duck down to go through the doorway. Inside it was even darker and when a match flared on the other side of the room, Stiles narrowed his eyes against the glare.

A candle was lit and Stiles glanced around. It was a shelter, neatly made, with a sloped roof. It was difficult to make much out in the dim light but Stiles watched Derek intently. The man had some sort of woven chest from which he brought out blankets.

“It gets cold.” He muttered and Stiles silently took the rough fabric when it was offered. “Hammock’s there.” Derek said, giving Stiles a nudge towards it. Stiles glanced back at him, uneasy and on edge. Derek was stood watching him, “Go on.” He said. Stiles moved over to the hammock, hanging from the roof beams, and looked back over his shoulder to see Derek digging through the chest again. Inelegantly, Stiles pulled himself up into the hammock, tugging the blanket over himself as he warily lay down. The high sides of the hammock made him anxious because he couldn’t see what Derek was doing. He propped himself up carefully and saw Derek rolling out a tightly woven mat before he blew the candle out. Stiles settled back, telling himself to relax. The hammock gave him protection – Derek was on the floor and Stiles was up here. It was unlikely that Derek would try anything, at least not until morning.

 

Stiles slept until well into the next day, only waking to find Derek hovering over him, a hand on his shoulder. It scared him badly and Stiles jolted up to seated with a yell. Derek backed off,

“Calm.” Derek said, placating, “Was just going to offer you food.”

“I’ll come-” Stiles stuttered, barely conscious, his heart thudding, “Just give me a minute.” Derek nodded and went outside, leaving Stiles time to recover.

He forced himself to rouse, dragging himself out of the hammock awkwardly to stumble onto the floor. He groaned at the pain in his calves and thighs; yesterday had been hell on them and he could feel it now. Derek appeared suddenly in the doorway,

“Okay?”

“Fine.” Stiles said, curt. Derek looked at him a moment longer and then he was gone. Stiles pulled his shirt on, though the day was quickly heating up and stepped outside. Derek was sat cross-legged, warming something over a fire. He looked up when Stiles came out but didn’t say anything. “Why don’t you have a little?” Stiles asked suddenly after Derek had given him a mess tin of porridge. Derek kept his eyes on his food as he said quietly,

“She died.” Stiles’ desire to ask questions disappeared immediately and they fell into tense silence, until Derek broke it abruptly, “I didn’t kill her.” He said and Stiles suddenly found the man’s brown-green eyes dead set on him. The intensity unsettled him and Derek turned away, “She was hurt by Gabriel in a fight about food.” He said, “And it got infected. They would not give us medicine because they wanted to watch her die.” Stiles stared at the man, remembering Allison’s warning uneasily,

“Are you- allowed to say that?” Derek shrugged and then continued as if Stiles hadn’t spoken,

“I am the only Alpha without a little. They drop boxes into my square more often than others but I let them go. I don’t want to see someone die again.” He turned his gaze on Stiles, “I did not mean to get you. You ran into me.” Stiles’ eyebrows climbed,

“It wasn’t intentional.” He retorted, though the look of loss lingering on Derek’s face – and Stiles recognised it from his father’s grief after his mother had died – checked him. Derek stood up suddenly, making Stiles flinch,

“I take you over to Scott’s soon.” Derek said, before turning away. More quietly he added, “You’re not comfortable with me.”


End file.
